


In The Years of Our Fathers

by poisontaster



Series: Heart 'Verse [43]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-28
Updated: 2007-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-20 23:58:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6030634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Year 27. Sam thought the problem would be the year Dean turned fifty-two, the age John was when he died. But he was wrong. The trouble really came the year after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Years of Our Fathers

**Author's Note:**

> I blame this on the 2007 Escapade Vid Show and killabeez, morgandawn and sisabet in particular. Many thanks to quietdiscerning for convincing me this really WAS a fic and to maygra for suffering through my horrible tense shifts. Dedicated to denyce because she is just made of fucking awesome.

Sam thought the problem would be the year Dean turned fifty-two, the age John was when he died.

He watched Dean carefully all year, which—with Dean—is really a very delicate form of non-watching. But he was wrong.

The trouble really came the year after.

***

At least this time there was a note.

Sam was grateful for that.

***

_I'm not gone. I just had to go. For a while. I'll be back._

***

Sam was pretty okay the first week.

The kids kept watching him, in their much-younger and not nearly as refined, not-watching way, but he understood and it helped keep him in his skin.

He was okay. He was fine.

The second week, he had a bit of a meltdown. Sophie woke him from restless, ugly dreams to all the dishes in the kitchen cabinets flinging themselves out of the cabinets and crashing into the wall across the room, but it was only that and he cleaned it up without too much trouble or anyone knowing except Sophie and Chance, who had to bandage his hand. She gave him skeptical eye when he told her he dropped the plates while rearranging, but she held her peace.

Eighteen days after Dean left, Chance, Mike and Sarah were all in the apartment when he got there. "Go find him," Sarah said, her eyes dry and red. "I can watch Sophie. Go."

And then it was clearer. "No," he said, crossing the room to where Sophie was coloring obliviously at the coffee table. She was at that age where she was getting a little self-conscious about being held but when he reached for her, she came readily, arms wrapping around his neck and her legs around his waist. Guilt smote him, because he realized tardily that she'd been like this for days, missing Dean as much as he was. "No, Sophie needs to go with me."

"Sam—"

Sophie's arm's closed tighter around his neck and he held her more securely in return, silent reassurance. _I won't leave you._ "It's okay. I'll take care of her, Sarah. I promise. But I need her to go."

"I want to go," Sophie said, clinging tighter.

And then was settled.

***

Sam had always been very scrupulous with Rose. Not only because the sheer strength of her gift terrified him—he's careful with all their 'kids'—but with Rose, the potential for corruption was so great.

But for Dean, he didn't care.

"Tell me where he is," he asked—begged—her.

Rose wiped her nose with the back of an equally filthy wrist and regarded him through a mask of artist's charcoal. Lucas had taught her that, that method of focus. Her eyes were pale and slightly lunatic. "You said you wouldn't ask," she said finally. Her voice is always deeper than he expected, rough at the bottom like sandpaper. "You promised me, once."

His throat closed with bitterness. He _did_ promise. _Never for selfish purposes._ He can't think of anything more selfish than this, but he'd come anyway. His heart aches dully in his chest, and he doesn't know what to say, how to face her.

Sam turned away.

Rose's fingers reached out and braceleted his wrist, leaving smudges like shadow. "I didn't say I wouldn't tell you," she said in her same carefully expressionless voice. "He's my Dean too." Her lips quirked and her eyes shimmered suddenly brighter with the emotion that she so seldom let herself show. "He's all of ours."

Sam nodded.

***

"Danny," Sophie said when Sam found himself struck mute and for a moment, her voice seemed so out of place.

Always 'Danny'; never quite Daddy, never really Dean but some weird childlike twist of both. Sophie's Danny. His Dean.

Dean looked up like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he didn't know he was hiding (hiding from Sam, dammit) and there was a split second that lasted forever right before Dean's expression broke.

Across the campus, unaware that most of her family was there, lurking, Chelsea flung her head back and laughed.

***

It was hours later—hours—and Sam still couldn't say anything. It was like a spell. He wondered if Rose cursed him for breaking his promise. Dean sat on the bed with Sophie's sleep-knotted hand fisted in his shirt like she was afraid to let go and Sam on his right, afraid to touch him.

"I don't know what this is," Dean said, as he'd said a half-dozen or more times already. "I just… I didn't really know where I was going, what I was doing. I just…" Dean patted his chest. "I keep feeling this…tightness. Like pressure." He looked sidelong at Sam. "I'm sorry, Sammy."

Sam shook his head and it was like he shook something off of him at the same time—maybe just his sense of paralysis—because then he could reach out and then he could touch. He wrapped his fingers around Dean's wrist and felt the skin and the bone and blood beneath it.

 _Thank you,_ he thought. "You left a note," he said inanely, a forgiveness, and Dean smiled.

"Yeah. Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks?"

"How's Chelsea?" Like he hadn't spoken to her just a couple days before.

Dean shrugged. "Fine. Happy."

Sam breathed in. "Are you coming home?"

Dean's hand turned and slid until their palms slotted against each other. They both stared at their twined fingers. "Yeah."

"Good." Sam put his other hand over Dean's. Exhaled. "Good."

***

He hadn't slept well in weeks; when Dean pulled away from him, Sam woke immediately, his hand reaching across the sheets until it met flesh. Dean was panting, shuddering, loud in the stillness. "What?" Sam asked, his voice thick.

He raised his head from the pillow to watch Dean shake his. "I don't know." Dean was massaging his chest again and abruptly, Sam wondered if it was a heart attack. He sat up, kicking the sheets from his legs.

"Dean?"

A second shake, more irritable. "I don't know," Dean said again. "I just… I feel. I feel _this_ , beating under my skin." His face was ducked and Sam couldn't see his expression, but after nearly five decades, he didn't have to. He knew the hunch of Dean's still broad shoulders, that choked voice. "He isn't here, Sam. He never made it this long."

Sam's eyes closed. He didn't know if it was with relief or dismay. _Finally. Here we go._ "I know."

"I'm." Dean's voice broke. "I'm older than my father and I have all this inside me and I don't know what I'm feeling, Sam. I don't fucking _know_."

It ached some, because he wasn't as limber as he used to be, but Sam sidled closer to Dean to bracket him with his knees, put his hands on his brother's shoulders, a Winchester Brothers almost-hug. "Happy," he whispered against the side of Dean's face. "You're _happy_ , Dean. And it's okay. You can be happy."

"He didn't get to happy. He didn't get to see this. Us."

It occurred to Sam that their father might have been less than pleased to see them in their current configuration…but he knew what Dean meant. Chelsea, Sophie, the kids and the school and the two of them, safe and alive. Still safe and alive and together. Family.

"No," Sam agreed, "but it's what he wanted. He wanted us to be happy. And we are."

Dean's breath hitched, erratic.

Sam pressed a little harder, knowing—understanding—what Dean needed. "Don't you think he'd be happy, knowing that we are?"

Dean's head ducked lower and Sam didn't hear Dean's sob, but he felt it tearing through his brother like the final crack in a too-ancient dam.

"It's okay to be happy," Sam said again, inexorably.

"Danny?" Sam heard Sophie climb from the bed in a slither of sheets and a rusty sigh of springs. Small feet pattered across the carpet to them. To Dean. Sam opened his eyes and looked at her, still bird-like small and so unbelievable. Their daughter. His and Dean's.

Sophie climbed into Dean's lap, never for a second doubting her right to do so. She wrapped her arms around his neck and reached for Sam, mashing the three of them together in her hug. "I'm okay," Dean rasped. "I'm all right, Sophie-bean."

"Dad?" He saw the sparkle of her dark eyes, her tone doubtful.

"Yeah, Soph. We're okay."

Sophie's arms tightened, almost choking, but Sam didn't mind, as Dean turned his face into Sophie's shoulder and cried silently—finally, finally letting himself go, letting himself break for their father.

Not in sadness, but in joy.


End file.
